


Vanity and Foolishness

by Azaraethe



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brother/Brother Incest, Character Study, Consensual Possession, Erotica, Internal Conflict, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23543209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaraethe/pseuds/Azaraethe
Summary: “Mine. My strength when I falter. My will when I die."Percival’s refusal to leave for Mephorash for regent training infuriates Aglovale who had gone through great lengths to create the opportunity for him. The brothers clash in Aglovale’s throne room.This piece is a short excerpt and may connect briefly with other excerpts in the series.
Relationships: Aglovale/Percival (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Vanity and Foolishness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ofnoex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofnoex/gifts).



> Dear Reader
> 
> If you have traveled here out of curiosity, and you're not comfortable with brotherly incest, do click the X button and close the fic.

_"How should we like it were stars to burn  
With a passion for us we could not return?  
If equal affection cannot be,  
Let the more loving one be me."  
_

W.H. Auden

≿————- ❈ ————-≾

His arms were locked behind his back. Not precisely behind his back, but behind the back of the royal throne.

The Throne of Wales.

His eldest brother’s throne.

Not his. 

Never would be his, Aglovale had grimly proclaimed moments ago.

The cushioned seat was stone-cold hard beneath his buttocks. Before him, was his eldest brother, swathed in layers of faint moonlight and lurid darkness, a weighted expression on his face. Behind him, the twin stone knight statues symbolizing the strength and dominance of Wales.

Percival growled. Eyes, claret like his own, riveted in return on his sights, locking, latching, scathing.

Daring him to look away. 

He held his eldest brother’s stare unflinchingly, his teeth clenching so hard upon each other that his molars hurt. 

The icy ropes around his wrists tightened. Ice that his own fire could not melt.

Aglovale’s lips snapped into a thin line. Lips that used to curve into the brightest of smiles. Lips that did not smile at him anymore. No matter what he did. 

And Percival decided he will not surrender.

“I will not go to Mephorash.” The prince snarled. He had stopped struggling against the cold, unyielding bonds.

“You will.” Aglovale’s tone was resolute, unbending. The blond King took two steps up to the raised platform where his throne stood solitary. And where his youngest brother was now chained to. He reached out a gloved hand and gripped Percival’s chin, angling it sideways, watching the fall of flame-red locks against the prince’s temple. 

Aglovale’s lips tilted in a disappointed, wry smile.

“You will, and we will not discuss this anymore, Percival.” His hand stayed on his youngest brother’s face, a finger stroking the taut line of muscle under Percival’s jaw. Aglovale’s red eyes looked distant, a sentimental pang overcoming the King for a moment.

“Why do you insist?” Percival’s eyes were downcast, and his voice cracked. His arms had shifted conspicuously, his shoulders burning from the overstretching of muscles. His neck was red from strain. 

He wore no armor, having taken off the ceremonial heirlooms before entering the throne-room, out of deference, out of respect. 

And there before his throne, Aglovale had waited, velveted in royal blue, encased in military steel and frosty in his austere handsomeness.

Percival felt like a fool.

Perhaps, he should give up. Retreat. 

Percival canted his head against his eldest brother’s aloof palm, warily like a tiny creature, like an old habit.

“Why?” Aglovale’s pale-gold brows raised at the question. At Percival’s perceived submission, the King’s finger stroked upwards, knuckling against his youngest brother’s too-warm cheek, tracing the fine arch of the prince’s cheekbone. 

The King made a soft sound of approval in his throat, and a brief whiteness laced across Percival’s skin before it melted into a droplet of water.

“A year in Elijah Chelm, under the guidance of Queen Orchis, might do good for your ideals, little brother.”

Aglovale paused to cup his hand against the slipping droplet and willed it back to ice once more. And he let it fall, a hardened teardrop upon the arm of his throne. 

“My ideals are fine as they are, _aniue._ ”

The prince chanced a protest, his attempt at compliance faltering.

“Oh?” The tall, blond man drew in a single breath, and he lifted his hands away. He stood straight, upon the second step of the stairs leading up to the throne, his arms folded against his chest, and his red eyes darkened, “Your resolve in disobeying me is commendable, Percival. But it stops here.”

Aglovale moved, stepping up the final step towards his throne, and in one swift gesture, gripped Percival’s chin, tilting up the prince’s face towards a cone of dim moonlight filtering down from a skylight in the throne-room’s vaulted ceiling. 

“Percival, what did you promise me?”

Aglovale entreated, his voice oddly gentle, like rain on adamantine. 

Percival stared, forced by the icy grip on his chin to divert his sights upon the face of his brother. His heart twisted, his mind seemed to have fled, his sensibility left straying behind, anchorless and floundering. 

Fear had roused its ugly head in his gut.

The prince blinked, the sides of his eyes were damp. He had long forgotten such fear and, briefly, his senses primitively retreated into a nebulous memory within himself. 

He was ten.

Their father had gone insane. Maddened from his experiments and the loss of their mother. The countless nights when his father would cut his arms and hands for blood to feed the evil that lurked beneath their feet, and he would scream in such painful abandonment, his voice sobbing and wanting in futility, from the cavernous chambers below their bedrooms.

Aglovale’s hands had pressed protectively upon his youngest brother’s ears. And Lamarok had held them both close. The three of them had soldiered the night together, and many such more dreadful nights. He remembered his eldest brother’s hands were always glacial in touch, and winter never left those long slender fingers. That frigid chill only heightened since their mother’s passing.

Percival squeezed his eyes shut. Hands pressed upon his ears and cheeks, like a bite of ice, like the raw nip of a cold morning breeze.

“Percival, what did you promise me?” His brother’s voice had held a bare hint of warmth. Percival’s eyes lidded open, lured by that tiny spark.

Aglovale’s hands were upon his neck, caressing, dousing the anxiety that had rose with that once-forgotten fear in Percival’s mind. At each stroke, a new heat rose, slipping up Percival’s spine, tingling his muscles. That same heat and the emptiness in his own heart were what had emboldened Percival to dare seek the comfort of Aglovale’s bed seven nights ago.

And within tangled sheets, between captured lips and Percival had promised, with virginal naivete, to surrender to Aglovale.

What was his promise again? The words floated to his lips before he could form them in his mind.

“I’ll be yours, _aniue_. Yours.” 

Percival muttered, his shoulders sagging downwards, half-realizing that the chains that bound him to the throne had dissipated like vapor. And his hands and arms were freed. Suddenly, the seat of Aglovale’s throne seemed so vast, and so empty beneath him. 

“Mine. My strength when I falter.” Aglovale murmured staunchly, his fingers gripping the fiery lengths of Percival’s hair, “My will when I die.”

A jolt of despair stripped Percival’s heart.

He stared into his eldest brother’s eyes, crimson upon crimson, his emotions stirring into a silent storm at Aglovale’s quite fatalistic declaration. Percival’s mouth sagged, his eyes glared, and he lurched forward, shouting violently.

“I will not do so!”

A palm pushed him back, herculean in its strength, and it pinned him against the ornamented splat of Aglovale’s throne. 

Aglovale’s expression grew livid. And the next remark was delivered in the harshest inflection ever.

“You’re too weak!”

The King loomed before him, one hand clamped firmly on Percival’s shoulder, his features cast in shadows. The moon had since descended from its path, leaving patches of complete blackness in the throne-room, and the stars struggled to light their ghostly trails across statues, steel, and skin. Percival bristled.

“I will not have you die, _aniue_!” 

He roared, pushing against the force which held him down, the muscles on his neck straining tightly. Yet, Percival’s efforts were impotent, and his struggle, fruitless. Aglovale’s face now leaned close, his lips parting in a hiss, his words enunciated in a deafening whisper.

“You are not worthy enough for my throne then, Percival.”

Percival gritted his teeth, barricading his heart against Aglovale’s barbed words. He took in a long breath, so inwardly deep that his chest almost caved upon itself. And as if he could draw courage from the very air around him, Percival spoke, every single word of his, stressed and articulated.

“I will sit on _this_ throne without sacrificing anyone.”

Aglovale’s gaze turned a vacant scarlet at his youngest brother's proclamation.

“Fool.” The King muttered, unamused. His hands clutched Percival’s jaw, tilting the prince’s face up towards his once more, “You’ve already sacrificed yourself.”

A wave of confusion swept across Percival's face.

Aglovale made a move, shifting forward, his mouth descending upon Percival’s, pressing his lips firmly down upon his brother's. Bewildered and caught unaware, Percival gasped, trying to wrench himself away, but it was in vain. His mouth was preyed upon, sought after as the kisses grew deeper, and his brother’s tongue stroked his, wetting his lower lip and the sides of his mouth. A bitter cold scent enveloped him - his brother's scent. So sharply frigid and immaculately clean. Aglovale smelled like the deep frosts of winter, like the icicled depths of a distant cedar forest. There was nary a trace of warmth within those depths. 

Percival struggled against each kiss, finding himself immobile as if an invisible weight secured him to the throne. Desperately, he tried to lift himself upwards, half-coveting the chill that was Aglovale, half-fearing. And perhaps, in all pitiful desire and prideful belief that his warmth would melt the ice in his brother’s heart. 

“No, Percival.”

Aglovale had pushed back him down again, and his attempt to connect was emphatically denied.

Did he sense a mote of gratification in his brother’s voice? Aglovale built bridges rather than burn them. Surely, his brother realized.

Another kiss was pressed to his forehead. How it chilled his fire, that kiss.

Percival shivered, caught in a volley of rising need, and buried guilt. As his senses merged back to form a semblance of coherency, he realized what his brother intended to do. Aglovale’s hands had moved down, tracing down Percival’s garments, efficiently unlatching, unbuckling, trading modesty for nakedness. The gold rinceaux and the red jewels inlaid in the throne’s arms and back carved themselves into his bare skin, cold but not as cold as Aglovale’s lips that came upon his again. His nipples were teased, and hands familiar with all that was needed to make a body lustful and wanton roamed his stomach and traced the serrated band of muscles at his ribs. 

Now, the cool flesh of his brother pressed down firmly upon his own, Aglovale relinquishing his steel and velvet for the connection Percival craved. The prince felt his warmth flow, suffusing heat into Aglovale’s searching hands. And his cock was pleasured and indulged, ministered by questing fingers that knew the places which made Percival cry for more.

Delectable desire crept through his groin, and his moans deepened in soft, indecipherable cries, laced with broken phrases of ‘ _aniue_ ’ from his panting mouth. He was close, too close. He tried to fight the tightening of his balls, to delay his impending orgasm. 

_“No, Percival.”_

Aglovale’s voice drifted into his ear, assertive, compelling. His tongue trailed across Percival’s cheek and covered his brother’s gasping mouth in a kiss.

Percival's will collapsed.

With a groan gutting his throat, he released immensely into Aglovale’s hands; the thick white ejaculate smeared immediately down his hard undercurve, teased across his balls, and stroked with intent between his ass. His eyes fell into a drowsing state, half-lidding in minute tiredness. 

Semi-sedated and bonelessly sprawled in the large throne, Percival watched Aglovale move even closer, and felt his legs being pushed apart; Aglovale’s fingers slipping and reaching down to tickle the outer rim of his hole. Dimly, he remembered his first night, pressed into Aglovale’s bed, willingly pliant for his brother, with a love only perhaps a fool like him would hold. And that love flared and burned with each inflamed thrust of Aglovale’s cock into his depths.

Percival jerked upwards as his brother’s finger slid into his ass. His insides clenched and twitched, the lustful memory and pressure of Aglovale’s invading fingers, leaving him erect and hard again. Fingers clutched his chin, lifting his face once more, and his lips swelled with more kisses from his brother, each kiss fervent with possessive adoration. Another finger prodded his ass, slipping in to join its mate. He was stroked again, the thrum of fingertips delightful inside of him. His legs trembled, and his buttocks clenched unwillingly by themselves, remembering that previous need and wanting to be filled even deeper.

Aglovale’s mouth had left his lips, and it had made its way across his other cheek, wetting his skin, leaving breath both warm and cold on his face. Then, his brother paused close to his ear.

“Percival.” 

“ _Aniue!_ ”

He moaned once at the call of his name, compliant and wishful.

As if on cue, the fingers at his ass slipped in further, pushing his prostate, pumping in and out of his tautening flesh. He moaned again, arching his spine into a sharp curve, his body thrusting outwards as his mouth parted in delirious delight. Semen coated his stomach as he shuddered through his second release, the sticky splotches of pale watery white dribbling down his groin, patching his hips and sliding to stain the cushion of his brother’s throne.

Satisfied, Aglovale leaned very close, pressing himself against Percival’s sweat-slicked heaving chest, relishing the wild heat emanating from his brother’s trembling body. And like the sharpest of swords that cut without inflicting a single trace of pain, the King whispered into his brother’s ear,

“Percival, you _will_ go to Mephorash.”

**Author's Note:**

> This excerpt is part of a longer multi-chapter fiction involving the Wales Brothers, namely focused on Aglovale and Percival. However, *taps chin* this multi-chapter would likely be sitting in my virtual drive for some time while I work on some current pieces. The only reason why this piece has emerged from my insanity into the light was the grand result of a few days of discord discourse with friends who equally enjoy discussing Aglovale and his machinations. I also have in plan to write his Majesty with a few more other pairings - but time needs to be on my side.
> 
> 2nd May > A short note-update; A friend came by and mentioned that 'Oh I was a tad worried about reading this piece because it seemed that Aglovale shouldn't be acting like this'. They managed to read the other two excerpts before this piece, and came to realization. I'm so appreciative of patient readers like them as I struggle to try to put my formless thoughts into digital words.


End file.
